


Of Plenty

by brittlelimbs



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Crack Treated Seriously, Dubious Consent, Light BDSM, M/M, Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8857825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: Credence is not unfamiliar with being the means. When Mr. Graves asks him, politely, on a Sunday afternoon, to help him with a project, he says: yes, sir.Or: Graves needs copious amounts of human semen for a potion and Credence is helpless to supply.





	

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god i'm so sorry, this is literally crack. this is crack! and i guess i just kinda  
> went with it
> 
> i'm assuming in the wide, wide world of harry potter there has to be at least potion that you need cum for. and if there isn't-- then i'm making one up. you're welcome

Credence is not unfamiliar with being the means.

There is some comfort to this, he thinks, a purpose; he is messenger, he is vessel, he is tool by which divined, God-breathed instructions are delivered to the hunched and the bitter and the stupid.

When Mr. Graves asks him, politely, on a Sunday afternoon, to help him with a project, Credence says: _yes, sir_. When Mr. Graves tells him to stand very, very still, in the middle of his sitting room and peels all of his clothes from his body like flesh from a fish, belt trousers jacket tie shirt union suit, casual flick of the wand—Credence shivers, but does not cry out.

Mr. Graves tells Credence to join him on the sofa, but in a special way. He wants Credence to lay his chest across his trousered lap and bury his face into the cushions, he explains, like some sort of twisted pet, repentant child. If Credence does, he will be rewarded.

And so he does.

If slowly: knees, _here_ , hands, _here_ , try not to make eye contact with Mr. Graves as you lower yourself down across his thick thighs because he will see the tremor in your arms and he will smell your fear on you like a sickness because witches can scent fear and you know this for certain.

Credence folds himself, turns his face decisively away where he settles. The upholstery feels lux and strange against his cheek and his cock, the stringy length of his quads. His bare ass is chilly until the hot press of Mr. Grave’s palm takes a handful and warms it, squeezing gently, and he bites his lip to keep from asking: _why_. In the other hand Mr. Graves holds a book, the title of which Credence can’t make out from this angle. There’s a leaflet tucked inside, and the scritch-scratch of a pen wielded by air fills the gentle space between their shared breath. Mr. Graves is taking notes on his reading.

“What do you know about potions, Credence?”

Credence can feel the vibrations of Mr. Grave’s words in his ribs.

“Very little, sir,” Credence says, voice muffled. “Only what you’ve told me.” Or: _virtually nothing._ Credence is simply the means, as he has always been; he has no need to know these things because Mr. Graves knows them.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Mr. Graves hums, stroking along the curve of Credence’s lower back, dipping in and sampling the taper of his spine with his fingertips, then going lower, lower still. Credence shakes.

Then he pauses over Credence’s hole, and that’s it. Credence is nearly beside himself; he’s never been touched here, ever, not even by his own clumsy hand. The skin feels new-pink and flushed, every nerve ending like lightning, and like he could scream, it’s so intense. His world, narrowed: he can feel nothing but the textured whorls of Mr. Grave’s thumb rubbing him in lazy circuits, rough, goodbad and alien.

Mr. Graves mutters something too quick to catch, and suddenly there’s slickness, warm and viscous. Desperately, Credence scrambles for reference, finds none. It’s amazing. It’s disgusting.

“Please,” he begs, though for what, he has no idea.

“Hush,” whispers Graves, and then he—pushes in. One finger, blunted nail and spongy flesh, up to the first thick knuckle. Credence sucks all breath into his body, pneumatic, tight sealed. There is no sound save for the pounding of blood in his ears and the hiss of the pen across the page somewhere above.

Mr. Graves is sodomizing Credence with his hand.

He adds another one and Credence nearly squeaks as he scissors out, stretching, exploring him in such a base, awful way that the shame feels endothermic; Mr. Graves fucks him gently on his two huge fingers and Credence might be a flame, or a the bare-burning sun.

Once Credence is stretched to satisfaction, the fingers begin to curl, just a bit. He’s hunting for something. Credence feels so exposed that tears sting at the corner of his eyes, and he grits his teeth to bear it. Mr. Graves strokes him from the inside as, outside, his thumb rubs over the velveteen of his ass cheek, absentminded and slow. With his other hand, Credence hears him turn a page.

Then, at once: _“Ah—!”_

He has no description for this sort of pleasure. A starburst, whitebright behind his eyes and spreading outwards from his groin, deep, lusty and strong, like spilt boiling water. He arches, for a moment, in Mr. Grave’s lap; he did not know he was capable of something like this. It feels _so good_. His own quick and devilish hands on his cock do not feel this good. Mr. Grave’s _mouth on his cock_ does not feel this good. This is the sin Ma proselytized against and Credence is quickly addicted to it.

“There?” Graves asks. He sounds amused.

“I— _What_ —“ and Credence can’t manage anything more because Mr. Graves is pressing the spot again with his fingers, bullying it ruthlessly. Credence’s cock gets hard so quick it’s painful, leaking fat pearls of clear wetness onto the sofa cushions, which probably makes for punishment, later. But right now: Credence is being reformed, one deep, plunging stroke at a time.

He is a tool, he is the means, he is whimless, he is _empty,_ his mind screams, even as he pops up his hips and bucks at the possibility of being fucked fuller.

“That’s it, boy,” Graves coaxes. “Good.” Credence snatches the praise and runs with it, taking his pleasure unabashedly on the girth of Grave’s fingers, crooked so perfect to stroke and press and love on his spot. He rolls his hips once, twice, and then he’s going to come. He tells Mr. Graves this.

“Up, up,” Mr. Graves says at once, removing his fingers and hoisting Credence onto his hands and knees, bewildering him. He’s tented over Graves, now, and he whines for the absence of pleasure, until a palm that’s silky and calloused in equal turns begins to tug briskly at his cock. There’s a pop and Credence spares a look down between his arms: Graves has conjured a silver bowl into his lap, poised perfectly to—

Oh. And things fall into place.

Credence comes harder than he has in months. It’s a generous load; he’s impossibly more mortified at the sight of it once he’s finished and breathless, spattered thick and creamy in the curved reflection of the bowl, bald-faced evidence of his sin. But Mr. Graves seems satisfied, praising him with gentle whispers of _so much, so good,_ and _here, rest_. He sets the bowl aside and helps Credence arrange himself across his lap, again, where there’s a very well-articulated bulge pressing out of his trousers, denting the seam of his fly and nudging at Credence’s ribs. Perhaps they’ll address this later. For now, Credence hisses at the feeling of his softening cock against the upholstery, suddenly too much, then sags. Boneless, sated, post-orgasmic hazed across the warm firmness of Mr. Grave’s legs and belly. Distantly, Credence realizes he’s speaking.

“—such an extraordinary boy, helping me,” he croons softly, settling a spread hand and the spine of his book across Credence’s back where he lies, as if he intends to keep him there. Credence says something inarticulate into the sofa, and settles.

 

Time passes, in some form or another. Credence is too displaced from his body to mind its pace.

 

He thinks, at first, that it’s just a phantom memory: teasing fingers, dip and twirl. A dream of cravings. _Pain._ All at once, Credence is roused by the feeling of Graves poking at his hole, _again_ , puffy and sore; it’s too real, and he groans, tries to wriggle away. His exhausted cock gives a dogged twitch of interest against his thigh, though nothing in his body should be capable of hardness of any sort, not even his jellied bones. He struggles to rise onto his forearms until Mr. Graves presses him back down.

“ _Credence_ ,” he warns.

“Please, Mr. Graves,” he mutters as Mr. Graves’s fingers plunge and plunder, searching for that spot again for reasons that defy all sane explanation.

“Please, sir,” he whimpers, “Hurts—“

The _smack_ of the slap rings out obscenely loud in the plushness of the sitting room; some part of Credence realizes even the pen’s scribbling has stopped. His ass smarts, badly, and he can feel the blow quaking through him, hurt radiating out. Mr. Graves _spanked_ him. Like an unruly child, pulled into his father’s lap—

He receives another one for crying out as Mr. Grave’s fingers dive back in the to the hilt, book set aside so he can work on his boy with both hands, hiking him higher up on his lap for better access. This one hurts more; Mr. Graves wears a ring on this hand, the one not yet acquainted with Credence’s molten interior, and he can feel the sting of its metal band on the tender skin under the swell of his ass. He finds his own fist and brings it to the bared grille of his teeth so he can bite down on something, hardwired instinct to swallow pain into silence kicking in so fast it’s dizzying. Old habits, well-practiced methods. He takes a breath, empties himself on the exhale, even as his breath hitches at each thrust, trying to let the agony and the bliss and the lust sail through him like a ghost. _Be nothing. Be nothing._

This works, but only somewhat; soon he’s rutting into the mattress with abandon, Graves kneading and fucking his ass with both hands, cock brushing against the upholstery and Grave’s pantleg with each forward thrust, pleasure sparking behind his eyes every time he pushes back. It’s so good it’s painful, and his cock feels chafed, swollen to bursting. Blister-red, weeping, angry. It should take longer than this, he thinks, ashamed, but he reaches the edge on a pace doubletimed, right-quick. He arches his back, impending orgasm burning deep in his gut and his loins, making them overfull, licking the brim of him.

“Mr. Graves, I’m—“

At once, he’s bereft again, yanked up, but no helping hand is needed, this time; he’s already coming as Graves situations the bowl beneath him, pulsing out pathetic pearly strands that quiver and drool from the head of his cock, barely enough to coalesce and dribble down into the bowl. Pitiful. Burning.

Finally, it ends. His head and neck break down between his shoulders as his thighs tremble with the effort of staying upright. His ass is _searing_ , by way of the thorough fucking and spanking. It feels grapefruit red and hot to the touch, crimson under Grave’s grip; Credence burns hotter at the thought of it.

“Down,” Graves says curtly, and Credence slumps forwards and into the dregs of himself, spread too thin across Mr. Grave’s aroused lap once more. His ribcage judders with his breath; he feels near hysteria. Mr. Graves keeps rubbing his poor ass, turning his hands to press the cool backs of his knuckles into Credence’s burning flesh to stem the ache. He can feel the ring, still, the width of its band, and thinks: Mr. Graves has always been resplendent, even in this.

“One more,” Graves whispers. “You can give me one more, Credence. I know you can, and you will. “

Another task. Credence can feel the hands on and in and all over his body, soothing, reassuring, twisting him just-so to sweetly produce—what. Credence doesn’t know, anymore; peaks surmounted for no reason, save for the sheer impossibility of the climb.

“ _Please_ ,” he breathes, brow furling in.

He does not remember what comes in the breath following, perhaps, because his body has become so fully transcendental and sieve-like that even his mind no longer inhabits it. The world, abstracted: at some point he’s fucked, he knows this much, and the rhythm of it, over and over and over and over at Grave’s hand, becomes indistinguishable from the thrum of his pain, twinned and one. Grave’s hand is a cruel instrument, driving and whipping him frenzied to ride roughshod over the foothills of three perfectly horrific orgasms. A trifecta, by some other name. Credence hates it. He cannot get enough of it.

Graves lands another blow; Credence realizes, distantly, that the wetness on his face is tears. At this he breaks, gracefully, into the crest of his orgasm, and it’s something like bliss, if it was a little more blinding.

He comes to. Graves is manhandling him completely, now, giving Credence no real sense of how his own body moves or why, the tip of his cock winking emptily over the last few meager drops that feed the little silver pool. He chokes on his hoarse sobs, wanting to die, a little; he feels as if his soul might exit through his blistered cock, too.

Mr. Graves sighs. Credence feels him remove his fingers, apparently satisfied, now that he's rung Credence dry to the pitched point of exhaustion. Being a husk is more painful than he first thought, he hazily reflects as he lets Graves bundle him against his chest, bowl gone, book set aside. Potion materials waiting in the stone-faced cupboards in the kitchenette, maybe, for future use. The rasp of his shirt hurts on Credence’s over-sensitive skin, but he lolls against it, anchoring in, hunkering down as best he can. Defined by this shape, and the solid gleam of its cufflinked certainty.

 

“Good, boy” Graves says. “Very good.”


End file.
